


What It Takes

by skarletfyre



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Gen, M/M, Past Drug Addiction, Recovery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-01-14
Packaged: 2018-05-12 18:17:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5675812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skarletfyre/pseuds/skarletfyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone has been stealing from Medic's supply of painkillers. He easily finds out <em>who,</em> now he just needs to find out <em>why.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to everyone who voted in the thing and helped me decide which project to focus on first!!

To most, taking inventory was a dull task. It was tedious and time consuming, and required much checking of lists and cross referencing of shoddy, second-hand information. Engineer had notably little patience for it – not when there was _work_ to be done – but Medic had learned to find joy in the process. Past the tedium, there was peace. A few hours to himself every month, uninterrupted by the clamor of the daily life of the base. The others had learned not to disturb him during inventory time lest they interrupt his count and bear his wrath at having to start over. This, at least, was a good time to simply relax.

It was also good time to snoop.

Medic knew very well that his teammates were stealing from him every chance they got. Small things of little consequence, band-aids and cotton swabs by the handful, tubes of anti-itch cream, occasionally the odd pair of scissors would go missing. Every time he went through this process of cataloguing his belongings, he would find himself running lower than expected on the most unexpected of items.

The amount of medical lubricant that was unaccounted for had reached an all time high. Medic himself was responsible for a couple tubes going missing. He knew Scout had taken almost all the rest, thinking he was being subtle as he came down “just for a chat” and slipped the stuff into his back pocket before bolting when Medic's back was turned. There were other suspects, of course, but this was really getting ridiculous. It was becoming uncomfortable to place requisitions for the stuff. If the Administrator knew what went on behind closed doors in the base...

Well. Perhaps it was simply enough to hope she did not.

Several rolls of surgical bandages and tape were also missing, another mark on Scout's record. Engineer was the one who kept taking his hydrochloric acid, although at least he was polite enough to return it to the shelf when he was through. Soldier was the one taking all the Q-tips, for god only knows what. Anything that could be used as an accelerant was long gone thanks to the Pyro.

And then, most puzzlingly, there were the pills.

Medic knew very well that his teammates would conceal their injuries from him. He couldn't imagine _why,_ he was their doctor after all. Covering limps with awkward jogs, hiding cuts and burns and bruises with tactical use of clothing and shadows. He knew that they were taking whole bottles of ibuprofen and naproxen and guzzling them like candy to cover and aches and pains that they couldn't fix without Respawning. He also knew that they would take whatever they could get their hands on to avoid coming to him with their problems, and so he made it as hard as possible for them to get their hands on anything at all. All painkillers were kept in an inconspicuous cabinet behind his desk, tucked behind packages of gauze and toilet paper. All narcotics were kept under lock and key, and the key was kept on a ring in his pocket, along with several other keys used for locking away much more dangerous and damning things than simple pills.

And yet the bottles in his hands felt lighter than they should. The oxycodone and codeine were the lightest of the bunch, and Medic was alarmed to open them and find them both half empty. A quick count of the others revealed less of a discrepancy, but the number of missing tablets was certainly higher than what he remembered handing out to various teammates.

These were powerful and expensive drugs and not something that he was likely to administer by mistake – which, admittedly, he had done before with lesser controlled substances. This was not a case of malpractice or accidental dosage. There were far too many pills missing for anything like that. No, someone had stolen them.

Spy.

The obvious suspect was Spy.

Medic's fingers tightened around the bottle he was holding as a coldness settled in his stomach. He knew of Spy's history with addiction – hinted at in his official file, the rest revealed by the man himself in the darkest hours of the night – and knew that he was likely the only one able to sneak into the infirmary and pick the lock to the cabinet without leaving any trace of his presence. Not that he would _have_ to sneak in. Medic had, after all, given him a key.

He slumped back on his heels, frowning down at the plastic bottle clutched in his fist.

It was time to have a talk about _trust._

 

* * *

 

 

“ _Docteur,”_ Spy said, as soon as the door was opened. Medic winced. He had never been able to sneak up on the man, but he kept hoping.

At the far end of the smoking room, half turned to face the roaring fireplace, Spy sat in his customary high-backed leather chair, legs crossed delicately in front of him. The cherry-red ember of a cigarette was visible in his hand as he waved Medic inside.

The large space that had somehow been claimed as Spy's 'smoking room' was not one of Medic's favourite places to be. It smelled like Spy, amplified by a thousand. Stale cigarette smoke atop copious amounts of pricey cologne atop even more cigarette smoke, with an unfortunate hint of gunshot residue. The last time he'd counted, Medic had found seven ashtrays placed strategically around the room. One of them was balanced on the arm of Spy's chair. He followed the glowing tip as it was mushed into the little dish, preserving the half smoked cigarette for a later time. Spy rose gracefully to his feet.

“Come in, please,” he said, “You so rarely are the one to seek me out, _Docteur._ To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

Medic frowned slightly as he closed the heavy wooden door soundlessly behind him. Spy was smiling faintly at him, standing expectantly in front of the fire and looking as welcoming as a man in a mask possibly could. It was true that Medic had gotten accustomed to being approached rather than approaching in these months since they had begun their dalliance. He felt a pang of guilt that it was something like this, of all things, that had finally reversed their roles.

“I was hoping to speak with you,” Medic said evenly. He lingered by the door, not quite sure how close he wanted to be at the moment. “Although I fear you may find the topic... uncomfortable.”

Spy arched a single delicate brow. Just like that, Medic could practically see the man's defenses going up as he turned away, fetching the remnants of his cigarette and relighting it. Regrettable, but not unexpected. He knew exactly how much Spy valued his privacy, and had a better idea than most of the sort of past he had, one that was better left forgotten. Medic hated to be the one to drag it up now.

He did not want to have this conversation. Didn't want to believe it was necessary. Spy had once staunchly refused a morphine drip when his leg was dislocated and broken in three places, and Respawn had been shut off for the weekend. He got by on Tylenol and what he called 'meditation,' which Medic was fairly sure was just gritting his teeth and willing himself not to black out from the pain. The doctor didn't want to think this of him now. But he had to ask. The evidence pointed here, and he had to know.

“I have noticed some things missing from my infirmary,” Medic said at last, as lightly as he could. Not accusing, not wanting to spook the Spook, as it were. He stepped further into the room, approaching slowly. “I wondered if you might know what I'm referring to.”

Spy was still for a moment. Then, he sighed.

“Apologies, _Docteur,”_ he said, dropping his head in guilt. Medic's stomach clenched. “I had hoped you would not notice them missing. I should have known that it would be impossible to escape your attention.”

Medic didn't know how to feel. Betrayed, certainly, that his trust had been taken advantage of. Fear, that he _himself_ had been taken advantage of, exploited and used to achieve the Frenchman's own ends. Hurt. Anger. Dismay, for the other man, to have fallen so far.

“Why did you take them?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. The fact that Spy couldn't even turn around and face him now made his fists clench at his sides. Spy brought his cigarette to his lips and Medic saw them smirk around the filter.

“I wanted to surprise you,” Spy told him.

Medic blinked very rapidly for a moment.

“You wanted to _surprise_ me? Do you think this is some sort of joke?”

“Not a joke, _non,_ but I thought you may find it entertaining. I had hoped it would take you longer to notice, thought I suppose I should have known better. You are far too observant for your own good, _mon_ _ami_ _.”_

“What are you talking about?” Medic snapped, annoyed by this nonchalance and dancing around the issue. Spy turned back to face him then, brows raised, surprise registering on his face. He looked at Medic, at his clenched jaw and balled up hands, and paused.

“What are _you_ talking about?”

“The pills, Spy!” Medic exploded. “I am talking about the drugs you have been stealing from me!”

A thin haze of smoke trailed from the end of the lit cigarette, hanging in the air between them like a sheer curtain. Spy blinked slowly.

“Drugs,” he repeated.

“Yes. There is a large amount of narcotic painkillers, kept under lock and key, that have been taken from my lab.”

“And you believe I took them,” the Frenchman said. His expression had gone flat. Medic took a moment to collect himself, deciding it would be better to choose his words carefully here.

“I have _reason_ to believe that you are involved in their disappearance, _ja._ You have made a living out of getting into places undetected and leaving with things that do not belong to you. The locks were picked, not broken. You have a key to my quarters, which I gave you. Your noted history with addiction to-”

“Heroin, _Docteur,”_ Spy said tightly. “I injected myself with heroin, I did not take pills.”

“You were addicted to opiates, which is what is missing from my stores.” Medic huffed out a frustrated sigh, trying once more to regain his composure. He had intended to take a delicate approach after all, so as not to upset Spy. He didn't realize how much he himself would be upset. “I am... Well, I cannot say that I am not _angry,_ but more than that I am trying to understand why this has happened. And I don't believe it would be too much to ask for an apology.”

Spy's cheek ticced.

“You will get no such apology from me,” he snapped immediately. “I haven't taken your drugs. I've taken nothing from you, though heaven knows you have provided me with ample opportunities to do so, if I wished. You boast of locks this and keys that, yet how many times have you failed to secure your own workspace and equipment? How many times has Scout or, god forbid, _Soldier,_ come waltzing in unannounced after you _thought_ you had locked the door behind you, hm? How often do you misplace your glasses only to find them on your head, or lay down your Medigun and forget where you put it before the start of battle? How many times now, _Herr Doktor,_ has your own incompetence and inability to keep track of your belongings gotten us all into trouble during inspections? It is not so far-fetched to believe that your so-called missing supplies were simply handed out by mistake, _non?_ It would not be the first time you have misdiagnosed, mistreated, or otherwise severely botched what should have been a straightforward course of action.”

Medic was red in the face by the time the Frenchman finished his little tirade. He had been walking closer all the while, now mere inches away from Medic's face and managing to stare him down, despite standing a good two inches shorter than the doctor. Medic swallowed hard, stung by the harsh truth that had been spat at him.

“That is not fair, Spy.”

“Is it not?” Spy demanded, nostrils flaring beneath his mask. “How is it any less fair of me to say these things than it is for you to come here and accuse me of stealing drugs from you simply on the basis that I am _sneaky?”_

“There is more to it than that, and you know it-”

“I know that I shared personal details of my life with you in confidence, on the assumption that my past shortcomings would not be thrown in my face when it became convenient for you-”

“That is _not_ what is happening here-”

“I have been free of my more destructive dependencies for over a decade. Do you think that I would throw all of this away for a cheap high?”

“The pills are still missing, Spy, and they are hardly cheap.”

“ _I did not take them!”_ Spy snarled, so close now that Medic could see the vein pulsing in his temple. He had scarcely seen the man this upset before, and never this angry at _him._ He knew that this would be an unpleasant conversation no matter the outcome, but he didn't intend to cause this much conflict between them. This was not what he wanted at all.

Medic blinked at the livid face, inches from his own, and sighed.

“Then that is all I needed to hear from you.”

For a moment he thought Spy was going to hit him. Or yell some more, or continue to insult him. But the Frenchman did none of those things. The red of anger drained from his face and his posture relaxed, slipping seamlessly into his natural outward state of distant composure. His cigarette had both burned down and been gnashed to pieces during his outburst. Spy flicked it skillfully into a nearby ashtray, then reached into his suit and lit another.

Medic knew the fight was over when the smoke was blown to the side rather than directly into his face.

“Has it occurred to you to ask me whether or not I know who _is_ responsible for this theft?” Spy asked, when they had been standing for some minutes in silence.

“Do you?”

Spy's jaw clenched. He looked away bitterly.

“ _Non._ But I will easily find out if it will prove my innocence to you.”

Medic's expression softened.

“I did not mean to accuse you, _mein Fruende,”_ he said gently, daring to reach up to tilt Spy's face toward him. “I am not looking to punish anyone, I am merely concerned.”

Spy resisted for a moment, out of spite, before turning to press his cheek into Medic's palm. He sighed. The last of the fight went out of him then.

“I am clean. I did not take your pills, _Docteur.”_

Medic stepped forward into the other man's space, leaving barely an inch between them, and leaned in to kiss him lightly. Spy's eyelashes fluttered against his cheek, and then he pulled away.

“I believe you.”

Privately, he was not so sure.

Spy was a liar. It was his profession and his craft, and Medic knew all too well how difficult it was for the man to separate himself from from his work. Spy had lied to him before about bigger things than this and would undoubtedly do so again. The question was whether or not he was lying _this_ time. Medic hoped not. He hoped, but he wasn't sure.

“What _were_ you talking about? What did you really take?” Medic asked, a long moment after Spy had relaxed into his arms. The Frenchman huffed out a laugh.

“Nothing to cause this much concern, I assure you.”

He obviously meant to leave it at that, but Medic's interest had been piqued. He raised his eyebrows expectantly, waiting for further explanation. Spy simply rolled his eyes and kissed him again.

“You shall see soon enough, _ch_ _é_ _ri._ See, and hopefully enjoy. But for now, what is it you intend to do about your little theft problem?”

“Oh, so you agree I have been stolen from now? Not that my own incompetence is to blame?”

Spy winced slightly.

“Apologies. I may have... overreacted, slightly.”

“Mm.”

“I do not think you are incompetent, _Docteur._ Merely... _eccentric.”_

“Not another word.”

“Of course.”

The corners of Medic's lips twitched upward. Spy was looking appropriately abashed, and as far as he knew neither of them had anywhere that they needed to be for the next several hours. The inventory could wait a while longer, the doctor decided as he leaned in once more.

 

* * *

 

It took some time for his little plan to pay off.

The sugar pills were easily enough to requisition, even with the flimsiest of excuses – the Administrator had always been quietly supportive of Medic's little experiments on his teammates, for which he was extremely grateful – and they arrived in bulk on the next supply drop, disguised as he had asked for them to be. Then, it was a simple matter of painstakingly counting out and replacing the actual pills from their bottles with the new, functionally useless duplicates. He put everything back where it was, locked it all up tight, and went on his merry way.

Depending on how long the theft had been going on and how many pills they had stockpiled, the culprit may have been able to feed their habit for weeks. Fortunately Medic didn't have to wait quite that long; just long enough to start getting frustrated.

He watched his teammates like a hawk. Meal times were irregular, but the lure of a hot meal was usually enough to draw everyone together around the long table in the mess hall. In the rare moments that they were gathered off the battlefield it was relatively easy to sit and observe everyone for out of character behavior. Spy, sitting alone at the end of the table as was his custom, was the focus of most of Medic's attention.

The Frenchman had been distant since their last encounter, but no more distant than usual. He maintained a certain aloofness in the name of discretion, but Medic could tell that he was still slightly miffed by their argument. He did not, however, appear to be suffering from any of the symptoms Medic was looking for.

Heavy had a runny nose, which was highly unusual for a man whose entire life had been spent in the cold, but of everyone on the team he was at the very bottom of Medic's list of suspects. The Russian could be deceptively quiet when he wanted to be, true, but it was unlike him to sneak and steal when he could simply ask or, if needed, take by force. He also disliked any substance that could alter a person's state of consciousness, to the point that he avoided imbibing alcohol, even socially. If it turned out Heavy was the one taking the pills, Medic would eat his own boot.

Scout was more jittery and jumpy than usual – but that was because Engineer had forgotten to switch the coffee to the decaf variety before Scout poured himself a cup. The youngest teammate had many shortcomings, but the only thing he could even be considered 'addicted' to was that vile carbonated soda of his.

The Engineer himself looked tired, but there had been noises coming from his workshop all night long. The Texan was working on something. He wouldn't say what, but unless it was a machine that was for some reason capable of picking locks and stealing things from him, Medic was not currently interested. He could wheedle his partner in science for the details later.

Pyro had their own pills to take given to them by Mann Co. Medic had been expressly forbid from studying the medication, but of course he had done it anyway when he had a weekend to himself. They were not painkillers. Truthfully, he wasn't sure what they were or even what the medication was meant to be treating. But Pyro's pills were large and pink, and unlikely to be mixed up with the small white and light blue tablets that were missed from Medic's stores. So, Pyro was off the list as well.

That left Soldier, Sniper, and Demo.

The Demoman was a drunk, and there was no getting around that fact. However, he was a drunk with a pattern. Medic had been watching the man for some time, trying to decide how and if he should write up a report on the unprofessional behavior, and he eventually decided that it was not an issue that required administrative action. Demo's alcoholism did not hinder his job performance. In fact, it enabled it. The Scotsman got rarely got drunk during off hours. More often than not he was completely sober all weekend long, and when he was tinkering with the Engineer or in his own workshop. He would share a beer with the others at dinner, but his trademark bottle of scrumpy was conspicuously absent... until he stepped on the battlefield.

Demo needed to drink to make it through the day of battle. He needed the alcohol to numb him to the blood and death around him, and Medic could respect that. He didn't have to like it, but he understood. He'd handed out enough sleeping pills – little round, red pills of his own formula that promised a deep and dreamless sleep with little next-day drowsiness – to every single member of the team to know that for all the laughing and competition and camaraderie, this job still took its toll.

Not on Soldier, of course, but then the man was clinically insane by most definitions. He had spent years living off of nothing but canned soup and cigars. His weapon of choice was a shovel. Even for an American, he shouted far more than could ever be necessary in mundane, every day circumstances. Medic was not worried about Soldier. Well, he _was_ worried about Soldier, but the helmet-wearing, rocket-toting madman was not on his radar as a possible drug fiend.

Although... that would have explained rather a lot....

Medic began to watch Soldier more closely after that realization. He was on the verge of kidnapping the man, dragging him back to the infirmary for a blood test to determine exactly what it was that fueled his outrageous behavior-

And then one evening, quite by surprise, who should walk into his office but _Sniper._

Medic was not expecting any patients that day. Usually when a teammate was hiding an injury or illness from him he could reliably predict when they cave in and finally seek treatment, but no one had been on his list lately. Medic was fussing with the barrel of his Medigun – which was absolutely _not_ held together with willpower and electrical tape – when the double doors of the infirmary were suddenly opened.

“Uh, Doc?” the Australian asked from the doorway, startling him. “Have you got a minute?”

“Herr Sniper? _Ja,_ of course, come inside. Allow me a moment, _bitte.”_

The Medigun was delicately placed on what had come to Medic's 'tinkering table,' and he made sure that his lap was clear of any loose screws or detached parts before standing up. Sniper lingered by the door, shifting from foot to foot until Medic waved him over.

“What seems to be the problem, _mein Freund?”_ the doctor asked, giving his most encouraging smile. Sniper paled slightly.

“Not really a problem, Doc, just uh, bit of a backache.”

“And where is it in your back that is aching?”

“Lower back, I suppose?” Sniper said, and reached around to indicate the region. Medic saw him wincing before his hand even reached the base of his spine, as though the act of moving his shoulder pained him.

Muscle aches. _Check._

“When did the discomfort begin?” Medic asked, carefully herding the Australian toward the examination table. Sniper shuffled slowly, clearly wanting to remain as close to the door as he could. He, out of everyone, had spent the least amount of time in the infirmary for any reason. It was well known that he did not like doctors, which Medic had worked very hard to not be offended by. That Sniper was here now, complaining of pain and purposely seeking treatment, had Medic on high alert.

“Just today,” Sniper told him. He sniffed slightly, then reached up to wipe his nose with the back of his hand. “Took a bad fall near the end of today's match. Bloody BLU firebug puffed me out the window.”

Rhinorrhea. _Check._

“You did not Respawn from the fall?” Medic asked as he wordlessly encouraged Sniper to sit down. “I do not recall you asking for a heal after today's fighting.”

Sniper leaned reluctantly on the exam table but stopped short of properly climbing onto it. His discomfort was evident. He was still wearing his sunglasses, which meant that Medic could not see his eyes, but he was willing to bet money that they would be red and watering.

“Nah, it wasn't that bad. Or I thought it wasn't, anyway. I grabbed one of the little med bottles from the ground before they switched 'em off, patched m'self up and that was it. It's gotten worse since then, though, or else I wouldn't...”

_Wouldn't be here at all._

“...wouldn't be bothering you.”

Medic smiled politely at him, noting the stains beneath Sniper's arms when he raised them, and the sweat beading on his brow.

Excessive perspiration. _Check._

“You are no bother at all, I assure you. It is my job to look after my teammates, and to see that everyone is in good health. You can come to me for any reason, no matter how small.”

Sniper returned his smile with a weak, wobbly one of his own, and Medic's heart sank slightly. He'd been practicing with Spy to improve his bedside manner and to be less, as Scout so kindly put it, _“_ f _reakin' terrifying all the goddamn time.”_ Evidently that was not working. Unfortunate.

Medic pulled on a fresh pair of gloves – the thin and disposable latex kind, not his heavy rubber battle gloves – and instructed Sniper to tilt his head back.

There was no medical purpose to be checking Sniper's thyroid, but he was counting on Sniper not to know that. Medic wasn't looking for lumps or bumps; he was instead stealthily feeling for Sniper's heart rate, and the current temperature of the man's skin. His pulse was faster than average, but Medic could chalk that up to the stress of his current circumstances. He did not appear to have a fever either, which was a good sign for now, but something to watch for in future.

Sniper stared straight up at the ceiling as Medic performed his faux examination, swallowing every few seconds and drumming his fingers rhythmically on his knee.

Restlessness. _Check._

Anxiety was another symptom that Medic could be looking for, but Sniper was already anxious at the best of times. He avoided social situations, bit his nails down to jagged, unattractive stubs, stumbled over his words and made excuse after excuse as to why he was unable to join in on most group activities outside of battle, unless goaded by Scout or convinced by Engineer or Demo. Sniper had exhibited symptoms of paranoia as well, but Medic was not concerned about that. _Everyone_ had developed symptoms of paranoia since taking up this line of work. A little bit of fear and suspicion in their daily lives turned out to be helpful far more often than harmful.

Sniper's mouth opened as Medic's hands fell away, but whatever he was going to say was quickly swallowed by a deep, uncontrollable inhale.

Yawning. _Check._

That was far too many check marks for this to simply be coincidence.

Sniper sat fidgeting on the very edge of the steel examination table, sniffling softly when he thought he could get away with it. Medic gave him a hard, even look over the tops of his glasses.

“Have you taken anything lately to manage this pain, Herr Sniper?”

The Australian sucked in a little gasp that did not go unnoticed, but otherwise maintained his composure quite well. He was a professional, after all.

“Nope, haven't bothered to. Figured I ought to come see you first, make sure it wasn't seriously.”

Now that was a bold-faced lie, but expertly delivered. Sniper wouldn't come to Medic for treatment for anything short of being on fire. In fact, more than once he had _ran away_ from Medic while actively on fire. Sniper had never, for any reason, come to him first for anything. And now here he was. Not a symptom, but definitely another mark against him.

Medic hummed for a moment, trying to pretend like he was thinking what to do next, as if he hadn't spent the last week meticulously planning what to do in such a situation as this. When a sufficient amount of time had passed, he sighed.

“I am going to give you some paracetamol,” he said finally, walking quickly to his little medicine cabinet. He didn't miss the way Sniper perked up at the mention of pharmaceuticals.

“Some what?” the Australian asked, seeming to forget about his 'back injury' as he turned to watch what the doctor was doing. Medic returned a moment later, hand extended, and presented the two white, oblong tablets in his palm.

“Tylenol.”

Sniper stared at him.

 _Ask me for something stronger,_ Medic thought as he smiled toothily at his patient. _Go on, my friend, I dare you._

Sniper took the pills. He appeared disappointed and frustrated, but he took them all the same with a small, muttered, “Thanks.”

Medic clasped his hands behind his back and watched the way Sniper expertly tossed the pills into his mouth, swallowing them together and dry. If there were any doubt left in his mind as to who the culprit was, that action had just erased it. It was reflexive, when done often enough. Sniper likely didn't even realize just how obviously he had given himself away. A shame, really, for a man who so strove to be in control to slip up so badly.

“Come and see me in the morning if the pain returns or worsens,” Medic told him as he straightened up. Sniper nodded politely and thanked him once again, and then his long legs were carrying him from the room in four quick strides. Medic stood and watched the double doors until they stopped swinging. He sighed.

It wouldn't be long now.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay i lied in the last chapter note Spy is actually gonna have a bigger part in this than i originally planned so. we'll see.

Sniper was noticeably absent from breakfast the next morning.

Sniper was noticeably absent from the entire morning, actually. He did not come back to the infirmary as Medic suggested. He didn't file into the locker rooms with everyone else when ten o'clock rolled around, the standard 'getting ready' time for the day's battle against the BLUs. Nobody even saw Sniper at all until the final warning countdown in the moments before the gates were flung open.

“Where ya been, Stretch?” the Engineer's voice said from somewhere behind him, and Medic's head snapped around just in time to see Sniper raise a hand and lean heavily against the wall. The usually golden-tanned Australian was white as a sheet and visibly sweating.

Oh, he was certainly feeling it now.

Unfortunately there was no time for Sniper to respond to the shorter man's query, and no time for him to see the way Medic was grinning at him across the room. The starting bell chimed, the gates swung open, and day's battle had begun.

Medic's place was on the front lines, contrary to what his teammates had thought when they were first introduced. They saw an old man, a stuffy academic that didn't appear to have brandished a weapon in his life. And what a gross underestimation that was on their part.

“ _Control point enabled!”_

Demo was the first to reach the point, with Medic hot on his heels. The Scotsman had opted for one of the swords in his collection today; a massive two-handed claymore with a broad, flat blade and the uncanny ability to cleave a man's head from his shoulders from even the most unwieldy of swings. It also, somehow, made him faster. Thus, Medic had grabbed his experimental fast-healing Medigun – unfortunately nicknamed the 'Quick-Fix' by Scout before he could discourage it – and gone to work.

The first BLU to reach the point was their Soldier. There was the sound of a nearby explosion, and then the man came sailing down toward them from on high, screeching and wielding a vicious looking pick-ax.

The moment he landed, Medic was on him.

His modified bone-saw and the Demoman's sword connected at the same time, rending their enemy limb from limb in a shower of blood and bone shards. He fell to the ground with a satisfying thud and the RED pair switched targets as the rest of the BLU team began to join the fray.

Medic heard the crack of a rifle across the field, and then a pained gurgle directly behind him. He swung around, saw at the ready.

The BLU Spy's balisong clattered to the ground as his clutched at his throat. The gaping wound was almost too large to be considered a hole, but it gushed blood all the same. Medic put the man out of his suffering with a quick slash across what was left of his neck. Then, he turned his eyes to the horizon in search of where the shot had originated.

Medic paid special attention to the crack of Sniper's rifle. Where it came from, how frequently it fired, how many of those shots actually hit. The Australian assassin was severely off his game that day. His bullets, usually so devastatingly precise, kept finding themselves buried in door frames and concrete rather than the skulls they were meant for. For how long a gap there was between each shot, one might think Sniper was being extra careful to line up his shots. But he kept missing. Almost every single one.

Medic also kept an eye on the killfeed during the few times he was sent through Respawn. Twenty five minutes into battle and Sniper hadn't died a single time, yet he only had a single kill to his name at the bottom of the electronic leader board. Wherever he made his perch must have been secluded and difficult to get to, otherwise the BLU's would have been all over him for easy points.

Or, perhaps they had simply deemed him not to be a threat.

There was a particularly long and nasty power struggle on the control point during which Medic lost track of his subject; the BLU Scout was making an irritant of himself again. The doctor's side and one of his calves were filled with buckshot, and the injuries were making it difficult for him to get to one of the larger medkits that he knew was so close by. But reach it he did, and enlisted Heavy's help along the way in taking the enemy runner down. Then, it was simply a matter of holding the point.

By the time that was taken care of he realized that the crack of Sniper's rifle had been absent, for quite some time.

It was a calculated, sloppy risk for Medic to be slipping away from battle in the final leg of the fight. There were only a few minutes left on the clock and their hold on the point was precarious at best, but in this case he decided the risk was outweighed by the reward. It would be unwise to wait any longer.

Medic heard his teammates calling for him as he dashed out of the fold. He had a good idea of where Sniper must be holed up, but getting there unscathed was going to be the tricky part.

Gunfire peppered the wall behind him as he ran toward the stairs. The alerted chirp of the BLU's sentry threatened to give his position away and bring the enemy Engineer down on him. A Medic alone was always considered easy prey, no matter how many times he and his counterpart proved that not to be the case.

Medic took the steps two at a time in his haste. He checked every room he passed, just to be safe, but he was fairly certain of his destination already: the water tower.

Standing beneath it and looking up, Medic squinted at the rusted narrow ladder and the small trapdoor he was going to have to squeeze himself through. Sniper made this climb almost daily, but Australian was both slimmer and lighter than himself. Also, he was not hauling fifty pounds of medical equipment on his back.

Medic sighed heavily and spared an anxious glance behind himself. If he craned his neck he could see the point through the window, and see that his teammates were still holding it against the odds. They were keeping the BLU Team distracted. Things would be fine.

With a determined huff, Medic unbuckled the medi-pack from himself and set it carefully to the floor, trying to tuck it in a way that would make it slightly less noticeable. Then, after checking the ladder to be certain it would hold his weight, he began his climb.

It was very dark in the water tower. There was no longer any water inside of it, of course, but there were no windows either. Shafts of light stabbed through the cracks in the wood and illuminated the heavy dust in the air. The largest gap in the boards was about waist height, and just big enough to stick a the barrel of a rifle out of. Squinting into the darkness, Medic could not see Sniper.

But he could hear him.

The ragged, uneven breathing was the loudest thing in the little makeshift room, amplified by the acoustics. Sniper was here, and close, and clearly in distress.

Medic left the hatch open as he pulled himself slowly into the tower, flooding the room with more light to see by. There was a crate or a stool of some kind in front of the gap in the boards. A familiar rifle sat on the floor beside it, propped at an odd angle as though it had been dropped. As Medic's eyes adjusted the to the low light they landed on the collection of what had come to be known as 'jarate.' One of the jars was overturned, but thankfully still sealed. On the other side of the crate was a pouch of ammunition, and a pool of vomit.

And there, curled up in a ball on the filthy floor, was Sniper.

Medic approached slowly, smirking. Withdrawal of any kind was an unpleasant experience, and one that his teammate appeared to be in the very middle of. Shaking and writhing with his arms arms wrapped around his middle, Sniper looked as pathetic as a child with a tummy ache. A fitting consequence for his behavior, the doctor thought, and for his little charade the evening before.

_This is what happens when you take too much from the candy jar and don't leave enough for the other children,_ Medic thought, toying with the idea of saying it loud, if only to add insult to injury. _I certainly hope it was worth it._

But when Medic was only a few steps away, Sniper raised his head and looked up at him. All thoughts of mockery completely left his mind.

“Help me,” Sniper said. His face was pale as death, hair dark and plastered slick to his scalp with sweat. Even in this lighting, Medic could see that he was crying. “Please, _help me.”_

And that was a plea he had never been able to ignore.

“Doc,” Sniper croaked as Medic knelt beside him, quickly pulling at the fingers of his glove. “Wh-”

“Shh,” Medic ordered. He pressed his bare hand to Sniper's sweat-slicked forehead and grimaced; the man was burning up. There was vomit down the front of his shirt, which was so drenched with cold sweat that it clung to his skin. Sniper looked as though someone had tried to drown him, but Medic knew all too well what it was that truly ailed him.

“Hold onto me,” he instructed, as he looped his arms around Sniper's back beneath his armpits. “We have to get you out of here.”

“W-wait-”

Medic did not wait. With a grunt of effort, he lifted Sniper from the floor and slung him over his shoulder. Getting down the ladder this way would be extremely difficult, but there was no other way to bring Sniper to ground level besides throwing him. Tempting as it was, Medic was not going to do that.

“Oh, god,” the Australian groaned, when he realized what was happening. “M'gonna be sick...”

“Not on me, you aren't,” Medic huffed. “Hold on tightly, I will go as carefully as I can.”

Sniper groaned again, but did as he was told. Medic could feel the man's fingers digging into his back the whole way down, gripping so tightly they must have ached.

“Put me down,” Sniper mumbled as soon as Medic's feet were on the ground. He swayed alarmingly when Medic granted his request. Now that they were out in daylight, Medic could see how absolutely terrible the man really looked.

“I can walk,” Sniper said unconvincingly as he clung to the ladder for support. Medic frowned at him.

“You are certain?”

Sniper nodded. He let go of the ladder, and grabbed Medic's arm instead.

“I can make it.”

“ _VICTORY!”_

Sniper flinched horribly at the ringing voice of the Administrator calling their success over the loudspeakers. His fingers dug into the arm of Medic's coat, leaving grimy stains on the white fabric. Medic wrapped an arm tightly around Sniper's shoulders.

“Come, we can get inside while they are distracted. Careful now, walk slowly. I will be right beside you.”

 

* * *

 

Safely in the infirmary, Sniper fell to pieces.

Medic helped the trembling, crying man into one of the rarely-used recovery beds and scrambled to find a suitable waste bucket before he made a further mess of himself.

Snipe was sobbing openly. Wet, stuttering gasps of air shook his whole body. Fat tears slipped down his cheeks, dripping off the point of his long nose. Thin fingers dug into his thin sides as he wrapped his arms around himself and curled back up in the position the Medic had found him.

It was difficult to watch.

Medic was disgusted with himself for his earlier thoughts of mockery and 'teaching a lesson.' His own spite had gotten the better of him, as it had done many a time before. His teammate, a colleague and friend, was now suffering in front of him, all because he thought it would be more _fun_ to set up an elaborate scheme to catch a thief, rather than offering help from the start.

Well, he would help now he decided. He left Sniper to his weeping and walked briskly to the far side of his desk. There was the jingle of keys as Medic reached into his pocket and unlocked the largest bottom drawer of his desk. He returned to Sniper's side a moment later, hand extended. A pair of small, light blue pills sat in the palm of his hand.

“Sniper,” Medic said gently, placing his other hand on the man's shaking shoulder. “Here.”

The Australian's eyes took a moment to focus on what was being given to him. He let out a low wail.

“No, no, I d-” He swallowed thickly, trying to turn his face further into the mattress. His voice was muffled by the blankets. “Don't want 'em anymore, I don't. I don't want it-”

“This will help you, _mein Freund.”_

“I _don't-”_

A horrible shudder wracked through his body, forcing him to curl tighter in on himself to try and combat the cramps that were no doubt tormenting him. Sniper lashed out and snatched the pills from Medic's hand. There was a crunch as he bit down hard on the tablets, chewing them up to make them work faster. As soon as he'd swallowed them down, he began to cry again.

“It will stop soon,” Medic said soothingly, rubbing circles into Sniper's back in an attempt to comfort the man. His own mother had done the same for him as boy, when he was stricken with illness after illness after illness. It was one of the few fond memories he had left of her. Sniper, too, seemed to appreciate it.

Medic sat in silence, watching the drugs take their effect. His hand stayed on Sniper's back, rubbing steady circles and feeling the tremors subside, feeling his breathing go from hitched and shallow to deep and even. The crying stopped. Slowly, he felt Sniper relax. And then he felt him move.

“M'alright,” Sniper grunted as he pushed himself upright. “I'm... I'm okay now, Doc.”

Medic's hand fell away. He stood up, giving the other man the space he so often preferred. Sniper did look better, in comparison to when Medic had first found him. He was still pale and his hair was still damp and mussed up, and there was still a bit of vomit on his shirt, but he no longer looked as though he might drop dead at any moment. That was encouraging.

“How are you feeling?” Medic asked. Sniper nodded in lieu of answering. Medic sighed. “I have some questions, I'm afraid.”

The Australian was still for a moment, not looking at Medic. He nodded again.

Medic pursed his lips as he stared down at his patient, trying to determine exactly how to begin the conversation they both knew must occur. He needed an explanation. He need assurances this was not going to happen again. He needed to know, for paperwork reasons, whether or not Sniper was going to be okay. He also wanted to know, for the sake of his own vanity, exactly _how_ such a thing had escaped his notice in the first place.

“How long has this been going on, Herr Sniper?”

Sniper's head bowed forward.

“Few weeks. Sorry.”

“Sorry?” Medic's eyebrows shot up. “What exactly are you apologizing to me for?”

“Stealing,” Sniper mumbled. “Figured you'd notice sooner or later, but I, uh... didn't have much choice.”

“No choice,” Medic repeatedly slowly, watching as Sniper pulled the neck of his shirt up and used it to wipe the remaining tears and sweat from his thin face. “I'm afraid you will have to explain to me how exactly stealing my narcotics for your personal use was not a choice.”

Sniper flinched as though Medic had shouted at him though he hadn't raised his voice at all. He kept his eyes down, away from the doctor's searching gaze. His prominent Adam's apple bobbed heavily as he swallowed.

“I had to get 'em somehow,” he confessed. “It was either that or... this. Falling to pieces at my post an' having somebody, you, finding me, can't do my bloody job when it feels like I'm being hit by a fucking train, can I? I just- I had to get it. You were the only place I knew how to get it from and I-”

He sneezed loudly, startling them both. Medic quickly grabbed a box of tissues before Sniper had the chance to wipe his nose with his shirt or arm.

“But why did you need these pills so badly at all?” he pressed. “What on earth made you begin taking them in the first place, in such dosages to cause this level of withdrawal? You say it has only been a few weeks since you started, I don't-”

“Nah, mate, a few weeks since I started taking them from _you,”_ Sniper corrected. He blew his nose with a loud honk. “And I'm sorry, alright? It won't happen again. I'll find another way to keep it in my system, I swear it.”

“Keep it in your-” Medic ran a hand over his face, now thoroughly confused. “Sniper, there is no need for this, _mein Freund._

“You don't understand,” Sniper said vehemently, cutting him off. “I _have_ to have it, Doc, I _have-”_

_Tap, tap._

Medic looked up sharply at the knocking on his door. Very few people bothered to knock before coming into the infirmary, and at that moment he wanted to see exactly none of them.

He held out a hand to Sniper, willing him to stay put as he strode quickly to the infirmary entrance. He kept one hand on one of the double infirmary doors to keep it firmly closed, and opened the other just wide enough to stick his head through and see who was outside.

It was Spy.

“ _Docteur,”_ he said smoothly, though there was a frown on his face.

“This is not a good time, Spy,” Medic said quietly. “We can speak later, _bitte,_ I have something else to attend to.”

Spy's frowned deepened.

“I was worried for you,” the Frenchman said. He turned slightly to show Medic the heavy pack hefted on his shoulder – the medi-pack, and a the Medigun propped on the door beside him, that Medic had abandoned on the field. “Pyro found this discarded on the floor and alerted me to the fact that you were not with the others. I've been scouring the battlefield for any sign of you and yet it seems that you have been here, all this time, with-”

Spy tried to peer over Medic's shoulder into the infirmary, but Medic shifted to block his gaze. It was an automatic reaction to protect the privacy of his patient, but it made Spy's eyes narrow dangerously.

“You have caught the thief?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Sniper?” Spy asked. And then, when Medic did not answer, “He is the only person besides yourself who is not currently in the mess hall, _Docteur._ A process of elimination. What are you doing to him in there?”

“Talking,” Medic said with a flicker of irritation. Why did his teammates believe he constantly wanted to harm them? Perhaps if they did not so frequently give him a _reason,_ then less harm would come to them. “We are only talking.”

“Oh? Then I am very worried for him as well,” Spy said with a small smirk. It slid away, however, when Medic remained stonefaced.

“I will likely be busy for the rest of the evening,” the doctor told him. “Try to keep the others away from here, if you can. I will report in the morning.”

Medic tried to close the door. Spy's knee stopped him.

“Is he unwell?” the Frenchman asked, trying once again to peer past Medic's broad shoulders into the infirmary.

“He is in far better condition now than when I first brought him here, and that is all I will say. He is my patient now, I must-”

“Is he coming off of anything?” Spy asked, cutting him off. Medic sighed.

“He- well, no, not currently, but he will be soon enough. Spy, please, we can discuss this later. I will see you tomorrow.”

Medic made another attempt to push the door shut, but Spy's hand lashed out lightning fast and grabbed hold of his arm. The grip was not painful or threatening, but it was insistent. Spy glared at him.

“For a man with your genius, you are being remarkably stupid right now,” he snapped, and Medic's mouth fell open.

“ _Was?”_

“Has it occurred to you, _Docteur,_ that I might have more experience – more _personal_ experience – with this matter than you do?”

Medic opened his mouth wider, ready to protest, and then stopped himself.

It had, unfortunately, _not_ occurred to him. Though now that he thought about it, it really should have.

He looked back over his shoulder at Sniper, sitting with his head in his hands. He bit his lip.

“Alright. You're right. Come inside, I will take the medigun, thank you. Please try not to upset him.”

Spy gave him an odd look as he passed through the doors, pressing close to Medic as he did so. The doctor relieved him of the weight of the medigun and its accoutrements and carefully locked the infirmary behind them.

Sniper heard either the footsteps or the door closing and looked up. He looked right at Spy and groaned.

“Fuck's sake, mate, what's _he_ doing here?”

“Visiting hours are not over yet, jar-man,” Spy quipped, and if Medic were standing closer he would have swatted him on the arm. A reproachful tongue click was as he could manage as he carried his battle equipment quickly across the room to its usual storage space.

When Medic turned around, Spy stood right in front of Sniper with his arms folded delicately across his chest. Sniper was sitting up straight as a board, glaring. The blanket draped around his shoulders afforded him little dignity.

Spy reached into his suit jacket and pulled out his cigarette case. He got so far as to open it and select one, bringing it half way to his lips before he felt the intensity of Medic's reproachful stare on him. The Frenchman sighed dramatically and put it away, turning his full attention back to Sniper.

“When did it start?” he asked simply.

The distrust was evident on Sniper's face. He glanced at Medic for a moment, shooting him an accusatory look for having gotten him into this position in the first place. Just like with Spy, the doctor could see his walls raising, his defenses going on high alert as he felt threatened by the pair of them standing over him. Before Spy's arrival, Sniper had been almost willing to talk. It would be easier to talk, to get him to trust, without the feeling that he was being ganged up on, yet Medic was almost certain it would be far more helpful to have Spy here than to turn him away now.

“You can speak freely, Herr Sniper,” Medic assured him, with what he hoped was a small, encouraging smile. “Nothing you say here will leave this room.”

“Not bloody likely,” the Australian grunted. “Not with him here. 'Sides, there's nothing for us to speak about, I already said I was sorry, didn't I? That's that, then.”

“It most certainly is not,” Medic said, frowning. “Your apology is... _appreciated,_ but it is hardly the heart of the issue. Spy is here, as I am, to help you. It would be easier to do that if we fully understood the problem.”

“What would _you_ know about my problems?” Sniper snapped at Spy, almost ignoring Medic completely now. “You, with your fancy suits and cigarettes, always wearing those fucking gloves so you don't get your soft little hands dirty. Life's so bloody fine and lovely for your types, isn't it? What the fuck do you know about my _problems?”_

Spy's eyes were narrowed to cold slits behind his mask. Medic was on the verge of stepping forward, telling Sniper to mind his tongue, but a single raiser finger from the Frenchman held him in place.

Spy turned suddenly, and strode back toward the infirmary doors. For a moment Medic thought he was going to storm out, but instead he grabbed the back of one of the cheap plastic waiting chairs and dragged it back across the room. The metal legs scraped loudly across the floor as the chair stopped right in front of Sniper. Spy gracefully unbuttoned and removed his jacket and draped it over the back of the chair, then sat and began to undo the buttons of his sleeves.

Medic realized what he was doing a moment before he actually did it. Spy grabbed the cuff of his left sleeve and pulled it up all the way to his bicep and held his arm out for Sniper to see.

The pale skin of his inner arm was an ugly mess of pocked, welted scars, clustered in a way that had always made Medic vaguely uncomfortable to look at. They were most concentrated in the crook of his elbow, but extended down his forearm as well, lining up perfectly over the thick blue vein that was so clearly visible beneath his skin. As Sniper stared, Spy rolled up his other sleeve to reveal his right arm looked much as the same as his left, only with the addition of a long, thick scar carved straight down the center. Spy bared one his many secrets and likely not the worst of the them for all to see, and did not flinch while doing so.

He kept his gloves on, however, to cover his wrists. But Medic had seen those as well, and run his fingertips over the thin horizontal scars, layer upon layer, some far more faded than others that lay hidden underneath the protective leather. He'd pressed his lips to those scars. Felt the texture of them on his tongue. They had become a part of him as much as they had of Spy himself.

“You don't know a thing about me, bushman,” Spy said quietly.

Sniper's eyes were as wide as Medic had ever seen them.

In the long, heavy that followed this revelation, Medic went and fetched himself a chair as well. He settled him self in the space next to Spy, both of them sitting across from Sniper and quietly waiting for the man to be ready to speak. Spy did not roll his sleeves back up. He did, however, shift in his seat so that his knee brushed against Medic's own.

“I didn't do it on purpose,” Sniper said, finally, when several long minutes had passed. He wet his lips with the point of his tongue. “I mean, I had to take them at first. The pills. But I didn't mean to _keep_ taking them.”

Medic nodded slightly, an acknowledgment. It was an unfortunate truth in his years of actually practicing medicine, watching patients and colleagues alike need medications to manage their legitimate pain, and then requiring more and more of the drugs as their bodies built up a tolerance until they were no longer treating the pain, only the addiction itself.

Spy remained still, listening. Sniper gathered his blanket closer around himself and began to speak.

“I got in a car wreck, about a year and a half ago. Not my fault, the blood bogon rammed into me as a stoplight. But it messed up my neck for a while, had to wear a brace and everything. Couldn't turn my head without wanting to scream, and I didn't have the insurance to afford any fancy surgeries to fix it up in a few minutes, like they do in the big city hospitals back home. So I had to wait and let it heal... and that's when they put me on those pills. And I was always careful about it, didn't take too many, kept an eye on the clock and didn't take another until it was the right time even when it started to hurt earlier. I had a friend got hooked on 'em a few years back, and I- I didn't want that to be me. And then a few months after all that I got the job offer, you know? For this job. I've been doing this on my own for a while – sniping, I mean. It's a good job, pays well if you know what you're doing, but...”

He paused to rub a hand over his face. He looked exhausted.

“Well, this bloody job offered me more money than I'd ever seen in my life, and I bloody took it. Signed the papers without reading them too close, hopped on a plane, and, uh, you know the rest of that.”

Medic and Spy shared a glance. They did indeed know the rest. Sniper's experience sounded much like Medic's own, of being offered something he sorely needed – in his case not money but _amnesty –_ and not reading too much into the conditions under which he would get it. They'd never discussed it, but he imagined Spy would have at least taken the time to read the fine print of the contract. Or, judging by the slight frown tugging at the corners of his lips, perhaps he had not.

“You know all those tests they did at the beginning,” Sniper continued, dragging Medic back to the present, “with all the samples they took and the big scanner thing, for the Respawn system? I guess there was some paperwork or a pamphlet that explained it, but like an idiot I didn't bother to fucking read any of it. I didn't know what it was for. I just took my kit off and hopped in and stood still til they told me I could get out. But I, uh... I took my meds that day, like I always did even though my neck was feeling better. I didn't know- I should've read the fucking paperwork, but I didn't know-”

“The drugs were in your system,” Spy said suddenly, with a note of realization in his voice. Sniper nodded. Suddenly Medic understood as well.

“The Respawn system is meant to restore you to the condition you were in at the beginning of your contract,” he explained, putting his thoughts together out loud more than for their benefit. “It effectively stops us all from aging so long as we remain in the system, but it also preserves any maladies or health issues that were present when the initial imprint was made. It makes a 'baseline' impression of what is meant to be your best condition. But if you had a broken wrist at the time of the scan, then the system will continue to return your bones to their fractured state every time you go through it. And if you are under the influence of an intoxicant, such as alcohol or drugs of any kind-”

“Then the Respawn will keep putting the drugs back into your system,” Spy finished for him. “As is the case for the bushman.”

Sniper's head hung forward heavily.

“Yeah.”

There was a moment of silence as the gravitas of the situation sank in. This was a beyond a problem that Medic could fix with a questionable treatment or any kind of experimental surgery. This was a problem on the administrative level, and would likely require a lot of paperwork and waiting before it could be resolved.

But there was still something Medic did not understand.

“But why have you been stealing the pills from me?” he asked, and Sniper looked back up at him. “If Respawn puts the chemicals back into your body every time then why bother with the pills at all?”

“It wears off,” the Australian said simply. “I mean, yeah, I always feel my best fresh out of 'Spawn, but it doesn't last the whole day, only a few hours before I start getting the shakes from it.”

“And this has been going on for a _year?”_ Spy asked. “How have you managed all this time without getting caught?”

“I haven't been stealing from the Doc for a year, just the last few weeks. I had my own pills left over at first, and the prescription lasted for a couple months. So that tided me over while I was figuring out what the hell was going on with me. And when that ran out I was able to get them shipped to me by a bloke I knew. The one who got hooked first, he was the only person I knew to ask about it. He's been keeping topped off this whole time but now... I haven't heard him from in over a month. I dunno if he's ignoring me, if he got clean and wants no part of it. Maybe the law caught up to him, or something's wrong with him, but I don't know about it. All I knew was that I wasn't getting my pills and I couldn't do my bloody job with the way my hands were shaking and how sick I felt all the time. So I got desperate.

“At first I was just offing myself whenever the pain got too bad. You know, make a target outta myself on the field, or pop a bullet in my own head if it was during off-hours. But I... I couldn't keep doing that. Then I figured you're a doctor, you've got all those little bottles locked up down here, I guessed one of them might have was I was looking for. Sorry.”

“You don't need to keep apologizing, _mein Freund,_ although I appreciate your sincerity.”

“How long has it been since your last dosage?” Spy asked. Sniper looked at Medic, who then looked at the clock.

“Roughly thirty-five minutes. I gave him fifty milligrams of oxycodone when I brought him down here.” And then, in response to the incredulous look Spy was giving him, “I needed him coherent, so that we could have this conversation and come to an understanding about all of this. I am not going to continue feeding his habit, Spy, so you can stop looking at me like that.”

“What?” Sniper said, looking back and forth between them. “You're- you're not gonna help me? But you said-”

“Of course we are going to help you,” Spy cut him off. “We are going to help you break this addiction, and resolve this error with the Respawn system. I can call in some favours with the company and try to accelerate the process. Medic will see to your treatment and recovery. Won't you, _Docteur?”_

Medic nodded curtly.

“Of course. You are our colleague, and our friend. We would not leave you to this in your hour of need, _Herr Sniper._ We will help you, as best as we can.”

**Author's Note:**

> so the relationship between Medic and Spy might be the main tag, and take a bit of center stage in this chapter, but that's just because i have no self control when it comes to ships. whoops. otherwise this story is very much about Sniper. everything else is background.


End file.
